The girl stomps into the library, flinging herself into a chair and scowling at her mother. Beatrice refuses to rise to her bait. She continues to prune the dead flowers from the massive climbing plant that clings to the window frame.
"And how are you liking your new tutor, my dear?"
"I don't know why you and father hired a tutor for me, mother. She refuses to talk about anything interesting - all she seems to want to teach me is useless frippery like music and art and other 'domestic arts', as she calls them. I don't think she has any knowledge whatsoever of mathematics or science."
Beatrice sighs and closes her eyes.
"Firene, sweet... she's not meant to teach you mathematics or science. To tell you true, you probably won't find anyone to teach you something you don't already know about those subjects until you're old enough to go to Longshore. Your father and I merely felt that there were certain... gaps in your education which we were ill-equipped to fill."
"But why must I learn these things at all?"
"By knowing a little about art and music, you mark yourself as a person of culture and refinement. And it is important when you are in the company of others to know how to comport yourself as befits your station. Don't you want to make us proud of you?"
Firene looks at her feet.
"Yes, mother."
"Good girl. Now, go wash up - your father will be home soon."
* * * * * * *
"This is hardly a laughing matter, Beatrice."
His wife stifles a giggle.
"I'm sorry dear; of course it isn't. But honestly, you should have seen the look on her face--"
"Damn it, Bea - that's the third one this year! It's not as though the city possesses an inexhaustible supply of governesses of suitable breeding and background. The agency is beginning to ask questions, and I suspect others are starting to talk. Jecks asked how my 'little spitfire' was the other day, and I'm assuming he wasn't referring to you. If her behaviour becomes common knowledge among our circle, there won't be a single appropriate family willing to let their sons be seen in her company, much less marry her."
"Drake, she's only twelve..."
"And if we wish to reinforce our position in The Company, we must cement our existsing alliances while building new ones. Tedwin will be starting school in just a few years, and by then I'd prefer to see Firene betrothed. I don't want him to live in his sister's shadow."
"Especially when she showed such aptitude for the work..."
"Enough! I have been considering alternatives to our current situation, and Jecks rather casually mentioned a school which might provide the discipline our daughter apparently requires."
He walks briskly to the library door and throws it open.
"Firene! Your mother and I would like a word with you!"
* * * * * * *
Drake watches Firene climb the long flight of stairs from the canal to the heavy iron doors of Miss Markham's School for the Education of Young Ladies. She doesn't look back and doesn't look up, so she fails to see the words carved deeply into the otherwise featureless stone walls.
SILENCE
GRACIOUSNESS
DEFERENCE
POISE
DECORUM
MODESTY
OBEDIENCE
This will do nicely, he thinks, then taps the cabbie on the shoulder when the doors clang shut behind his daughter.
* * * * * * *
Firene stands at attention at the end of her bunk while Matron performs the morning inspection. Unlike most of the others, she doesn't try to whisper or make gestures while Matron's back is turned. Keeping quiet has never been a problem for her. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for poor Teresa Brannart, who has just been caught mouthing something to Alice Govanade. Alice is smart enough to stare straight ahead and not give any indication that she's even aware that Teresa was trying to get her attention, so the Matron turns the full force of her scorn on Teresa.
"Is there something you wish to say, Miss Brannart?"
"No, Matron."
"I see. So you are, what, merely exercising your mouth?"
Don't laugh don't laugh don't laugh...
"Yes, Matron."
"Don't you think it gets quite enough exercise, Miss Brannart?"
Teresa looks at the floor. She knows what's coming.
"I believe you might benefit by a few hours of wearing the brank. However, since I am not convinced that you were not alone in your crime... Miss Govanade!"
Alice flinches involuntarily.
"Yes, Matron?"
"Was it you Miss Brannart was attempting to communicate with?"
"No, Matron!"
"Very well - then you may choose the severity of her punishment."
"Oh, please, Matron - not too severe. I'm sure she's sorry..."
"I'm sure you both will be. You shall both wear the gossip's cage - Miss Brannart for speaking out of turn, and you for lying. Spikes down."
Teresa whimpers slightly. Alice opens her mouth as if to protest, then seems to think better of it.
"The rest of you may leave for breakfast."
29.9.06
28.9.06
Firene: Alloyed Dynasty
A man paces and smokes a long, ornate silver pipe filled with nembelweed. He tries to ignore the gnawing in his gut with every agonized scream that filters through the tightly-closed door to the bedroom. Sometime after he smokes himself into a wall-eyed daze and collapses in a chair, the nurse comes bustling into the room, her skirts making a noise like paper falling off a desk.
"Ser?"
He turns to look at her lazily, watching the colours of his wife's much-loved plants smear across the hazy yellow light streaking the far wall.
"Ser, it's finished. You've a healthy wee girl now. Madam Beatrice is asking for ye."
She fidgets uncomfortably as his brain starts working with an almost audible grinding of gears. He sits up carefully and looks at her more closely.
"Did you say a girl?"
"Aye, ser. Madam Beatrice wishes to name her Firene, but she waits to hear your thoughts on the matter."
"Damnation."
He slumps back in the chair and starts filling the pipe again.
"Beg pardon ser?"
"Tell her she can name it whatever she likes."
* * * * * * *
A small child with curly silver-blonde hair kneels on top of a stack of heavy textbooks, which are in turn precariously balanced on top of a chair. Even with the added height, she can barely see over the edge of the workbench, but she still watches her father in rapt fascination as he carefully explains the composition of the alloy he's been developing for The Company. He says it like that too - both words capitalized, infused with meaning beyond the merely generic identification they should denote.
"Drake, do you not think she's a bit young to understand such things? Even I can scarcely comrehend your work at times, and you've been telling me about it since we were courting."
"Nonsense, Beatrice. Our Firene is going to be a fine metallurgist when she comes of age. See how she plays with the molecular models I bought for her?"
The woman smiles indulgently at her daughter. Firene has stood up on the chair and is putting together a complicated arrangement of metal rods and plastisteel balls in various colours.
"Be sure you don't give her real chemicals until she's not in danger of burning our house down."
* * * * * * *
This time, the man is more relaxed, although the sterile Arclight medical wing is considerably less comfortable than the Omberwell home. He still smokes nebelweed, but only puffs on the pipe idly - his concentration is largely focused on a technical document one of his subordinates has prepared for a conference at Longshore University. Firene is in another chair, her gaze directed with equal intensity at a maths problem in her schoolwork.
A junior doctor marches over and stands at attention.
"Yes?"
"Sir, I am happy to report that your wife has given birth to a viable and apprently healthy son."
"Really? Well... that's... that's wonderful news. Truly. May I see them now?"
"Of course, sir. If you'll just follow me..."
The clockwork doctor marches off again. Drake Omberwell turns to his daughter.
"You don't have to come in if you'd rather not."
If she notices the sudden distance in his voice, she doesn't show it. She nods absently and continues working, occasionally using a small hand-held dingin for particularly difficult calculations.
When he's gone, she looks down the corridor, a speculative expression drifting across her face.
"Ser?"
He turns to look at her lazily, watching the colours of his wife's much-loved plants smear across the hazy yellow light streaking the far wall.
"Ser, it's finished. You've a healthy wee girl now. Madam Beatrice is asking for ye."
She fidgets uncomfortably as his brain starts working with an almost audible grinding of gears. He sits up carefully and looks at her more closely.
"Did you say a girl?"
"Aye, ser. Madam Beatrice wishes to name her Firene, but she waits to hear your thoughts on the matter."
"Damnation."
He slumps back in the chair and starts filling the pipe again.
"Beg pardon ser?"
"Tell her she can name it whatever she likes."
* * * * * * *
A small child with curly silver-blonde hair kneels on top of a stack of heavy textbooks, which are in turn precariously balanced on top of a chair. Even with the added height, she can barely see over the edge of the workbench, but she still watches her father in rapt fascination as he carefully explains the composition of the alloy he's been developing for The Company. He says it like that too - both words capitalized, infused with meaning beyond the merely generic identification they should denote.
"Drake, do you not think she's a bit young to understand such things? Even I can scarcely comrehend your work at times, and you've been telling me about it since we were courting."
"Nonsense, Beatrice. Our Firene is going to be a fine metallurgist when she comes of age. See how she plays with the molecular models I bought for her?"
The woman smiles indulgently at her daughter. Firene has stood up on the chair and is putting together a complicated arrangement of metal rods and plastisteel balls in various colours.
"Be sure you don't give her real chemicals until she's not in danger of burning our house down."
* * * * * * *
This time, the man is more relaxed, although the sterile Arclight medical wing is considerably less comfortable than the Omberwell home. He still smokes nebelweed, but only puffs on the pipe idly - his concentration is largely focused on a technical document one of his subordinates has prepared for a conference at Longshore University. Firene is in another chair, her gaze directed with equal intensity at a maths problem in her schoolwork.
A junior doctor marches over and stands at attention.
"Yes?"
"Sir, I am happy to report that your wife has given birth to a viable and apprently healthy son."
"Really? Well... that's... that's wonderful news. Truly. May I see them now?"
"Of course, sir. If you'll just follow me..."
The clockwork doctor marches off again. Drake Omberwell turns to his daughter.
"You don't have to come in if you'd rather not."
If she notices the sudden distance in his voice, she doesn't show it. She nods absently and continues working, occasionally using a small hand-held dingin for particularly difficult calculations.
When he's gone, she looks down the corridor, a speculative expression drifting across her face.
13.9.06
A Huge Ever-Growing Brain that Rules From the Centre of the Ultraworld
In many of the more relaxed civilizations on the Outer Eastern Rim of the Galaxy, the Hitch Hiker's Guide has already supplanted the great Encyclopedia Galactica as the standard repository of all knowledge and wisdom, for though it has many omissions and contains much that is apocryphal, or at least wildly inaccurate, it scores over the older, more pedestrian work in two important respects.
First, it is slightly cheaper; and secondly it has the words "Don't Panic" inscribed in large friendly letters on its cover."
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
Let's be honest - even though large parts of it are fairly clearly written by academics, or at the very least interested amateurs with considerable knowledge of their chosen area of expertise (however weird or picayune it may be), the fact that Wikipedia is open source means that there's always some chance that the best-researched, most thoughtfully-written article can be completely buggered up (even if temporarily) by some asshat vandal with nothing better to do. That's the best-case scenario for topics which are sufficiently arcane or dull to avoid attracting sustained attention by the hoi polloi. For current topics or anything having to do with the standard hot-button issues of race, sex, politics, religion, drug use/abuse, or U.S. foreign policy (or lack thereof) it's a real struggle to even write about such subjects from a neutral perspective in the first place, to say nothing of keeping the article from being rewritten, "corrected" or just plain defaced every half hour.
If I were a university professor, I'd probably look a bit askance at any student paper citing Wikipedia as a primary source, although for a lot of articles the bibliographical information at the end provides a slew of references to books, journal articles, or more heavily moderated online works which are perfectly fine sources.
For all its failings, though, I could spend hours on the Wikipedia site, just jumping from article to article. I love the fact that in nearly every article, there are links to at least a dozen articles on issues which are either related to the original topic or explore side topics in greater detail. The main reason I love the Wikipedia, though, is for the stuff it covers that no standard reference work would even consider worthy of attention - the massive quantity of subcultural in-jokes, endemic memes, and pop-culture references that comprise the current cultural zeitgeist.
Any kind of information, once it's "frozen" in some form (paper, CD, DVD, etc.) becomes history. History is useful, certainly, but the threat of posterity tends to make one selective in what one writes. Wikipedia is a new kind of creature - the possibility of perpetual flux (even if in practice substantial chunks of it remain more-or-less stable after being uploaded), of being a snapshot of the sum of human knowledge (or at least what the people who write it are interested in) right now. And while accuracy and depth may suffer to some extent (at least in the short term), the breadth of information contributed is, as far as I'm concerned, a fair trade.
First, it is slightly cheaper; and secondly it has the words "Don't Panic" inscribed in large friendly letters on its cover."
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
Let's be honest - even though large parts of it are fairly clearly written by academics, or at the very least interested amateurs with considerable knowledge of their chosen area of expertise (however weird or picayune it may be), the fact that Wikipedia is open source means that there's always some chance that the best-researched, most thoughtfully-written article can be completely buggered up (even if temporarily) by some asshat vandal with nothing better to do. That's the best-case scenario for topics which are sufficiently arcane or dull to avoid attracting sustained attention by the hoi polloi. For current topics or anything having to do with the standard hot-button issues of race, sex, politics, religion, drug use/abuse, or U.S. foreign policy (or lack thereof) it's a real struggle to even write about such subjects from a neutral perspective in the first place, to say nothing of keeping the article from being rewritten, "corrected" or just plain defaced every half hour.
If I were a university professor, I'd probably look a bit askance at any student paper citing Wikipedia as a primary source, although for a lot of articles the bibliographical information at the end provides a slew of references to books, journal articles, or more heavily moderated online works which are perfectly fine sources.
For all its failings, though, I could spend hours on the Wikipedia site, just jumping from article to article. I love the fact that in nearly every article, there are links to at least a dozen articles on issues which are either related to the original topic or explore side topics in greater detail. The main reason I love the Wikipedia, though, is for the stuff it covers that no standard reference work would even consider worthy of attention - the massive quantity of subcultural in-jokes, endemic memes, and pop-culture references that comprise the current cultural zeitgeist.
Any kind of information, once it's "frozen" in some form (paper, CD, DVD, etc.) becomes history. History is useful, certainly, but the threat of posterity tends to make one selective in what one writes. Wikipedia is a new kind of creature - the possibility of perpetual flux (even if in practice substantial chunks of it remain more-or-less stable after being uploaded), of being a snapshot of the sum of human knowledge (or at least what the people who write it are interested in) right now. And while accuracy and depth may suffer to some extent (at least in the short term), the breadth of information contributed is, as far as I'm concerned, a fair trade.
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